


Make Me

by dofunklethegrunkle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Bandages, Consensual Sex, F/M, Fingering, Unexpected Sex, concerned friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dofunklethegrunkle/pseuds/dofunklethegrunkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't unusual to not see Stan Pines for a week. But it was unusual when he didn't pick up the phone. The tale of a house call and the events that transpire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me

_I’m not worried about him,_ you insisted to yourself as you approached the crappy apartment building. _I just want to know where the hell he’s been, that’s all. Definitely_ not _worried about him_.

You hadn’t seen Stanley Pines in three days. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence – you could go a week without laying eyes on him. But at least he still picked up the phone when you called. The fact that he’d been silent the last three days, his phone ringing to voicemail every time you called – that was odd.

That was concerning.

You didn’t understand why he got so under your skin. You’d worked with him almost six months at the diner around the corner, and sure he was attractive, but he was also headstrong, unrepentant, and a bit of a jerk. Still, he was good for a laugh and damn fine to look at, with his unkempt brown hair, square jaw, and broad chest. Not to mention those deep brown eyes…

You’d gotten to know him a bit over the months. Sometimes you snuck out in the middle of your shifts for a cigarette in the back alley, joking and laughing, knowing you could get in trouble at any minute if you were caught. Sometimes after work, the two of you would wander around aimlessly, reluctant to go home. A couple times you even shared a few beers, sitting on opposite ends of the couch in your tiny apartment with the television muted, silently playing old movies on the one channel your T.V. got.

But even with all those moments you’d had with Stan, you knew there was something he just wasn’t telling you. For instance, the reason he disappeared so often without a trace. Why he came back from his mysterious absences with bruises and bandages.

You buzzed in at the door, waiting for an answer from Stan’s apartment. You’d never been inside before, but from the way he talked about it you knew it was tinier and crappier than even your own awful apartment. But the rent was financially feasible, so you both put up with it.

Nobody answered. You pressed the button a few more times, growing exasperated. “Damn it, Stan, where the hell are you?” you muttered, on an impulse buzzing the apartment next to Stanley’s.

“What?” an irritated voice drawled out.

You hadn’t really expected that to work. Pressing down on the speaker button, you said awkwardly. “Hi. I’m, uh, looking for your neighbor. He isn’t answering and I was hoping you might buzz me in—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the voice sighed, and you heard the click of the door and knew you’d been granted access. You went in and climbed the two flights of stairs, going up to apartment 214. You found the door and started knocking. “Stan? Stan, open the door!” You weren’t certain he was even home, but it was worth a shot.

You groaned in frustration, giving the door a good kick. Why did you care so much? It was just Stan. He’d probably show up at work in a couple days with that stupid grin of his, his hand bandaged and his cheek bruised, insisting he was fine and just had some stuff to take care of. But somehow, you doubted it. This time was different.

You didn’t expect anything to happen when you tried opening the door. You certainly didn’t think it was going to open. But it did. “Jesus, Stan, you just leave your apartment wide open?” you muttered, slipping inside.

It was a shitty apartment. Stan hadn’t been lying about that. The walls were cracked, there was mold in one ceiling corner, and one of the windows was boarded shut. The front room was tiny, but since the only thing in the room was a stove, a mini-fridge, and a chair, it looked sad and barren. The door on the right side of the room was propped open to reveal a ridiculously small bathroom. Which made the door on the left of the room—

“Stan’s,” you muttered, dropping your bag on the floor and crossing the room. “You’d better be in here.”

You pushed open the door, stepping into a dark bedroom with nothing bit an air mattress. And lying on top—

“Jesus Christ!” you burst out, flinging yourself next to Stan’s bed and checking to make sure he was still breathing. He was, which was only a small relief. He was covered in angry bruises and had several scrapes surrounded by dried blood, having gone untreated. “Stan! Stan, wake up! Oh, god, don’t make me call the hospital, Stan.”

The grunted response was heaven-sent. “No hospitals. Too much money.” He groaned and opened his eyes, staring into your distressed ones. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was worr—” you stopped short. No way in hell were you admitting to Stan Pines you’d been worried about him. “You disappeared. I was just wondering where you were.”

“Well, you found me,” Stan sat up, grimacing. “What do you want?”

“Well, for starters, I’d like to know what’s going on!” you demanded. “I mean, I knew you got yourself beat up every so often but this? What the hell, Stan?”

“None of your business.”

“I’m making it my business. Start talking,” you huffed, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

He glared back, but not for long. As stubborn as he could be, he knew you never backed down when it came to what you wanted. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Sometimes… to make a quick buck on the side… I get into underground fights. Bare knuckle boxing, crap like that.”

You stared at him. Of all the idiotic things. “You… you…” you spluttered, sitting back and grabbing your head. “Fuck, Stan, people die doing that shit.”

“Yeah, but am I dead? No,” he grinned cockily at you and you relaxed a bit. If he was okay enough to pull that stupid smile, things would be fine, surely. “Usually I’m damn good, but that last guy really did a number on me.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, standing up. “Please tell me you have a first aid kit.”

He let out a scathing laugh. “Do I look like I have a first aid kit?”

“Thought not. Stay right here. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” you ordered, rushing out of the room and snatching your bag up on the way out.

After a quick run to the convenience store at the end of the block, making sure you propped the apartment door open so you could get back in on your return, and ten minutes later you were pulling Stan out of his bedroom and into his bathroom, which got the best light.

“Shirt off,” you demanded, sitting on the bathroom floor and ripping open the pack of bandages you’d just purchased before uncapping the hydrogen peroxide and soaking a few cotton balls.

Stan smirked. “Buy a guy dinner first, would you?”

“Shut up!” you snapped, hoping dearly you weren’t blushing. He shrugged and yanked his shirt off and you tried not to be caught staring. Yeah, he had a few bruises there and a particularly nasty scrape on his left shoulder blade, but damn if he didn’t have some of the most incredible shoulder and chest muscles you’d ever seen. He sat down in front of you, still grinning cheekily.

That grin melted when you grabbed his arm and swabbed the scrape there with peroxide. “Jesus,” he hissed. “That smarts.”

You had to laugh a little. “You can go get the shit beat out of you no problem, but disinfectant hurts you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really think about it. My goal is to beat the shit out of the other guy before he does it to me.”

“I hope you were making good money for this.”

“A few hundred a fight if I played my cards right,” Stan informed you proudly, wincing as you swabbed another injury.

You sighed. “I guess I can understand the appeal to make a quick buck. But just, Christ, Stan. How often do you do this?”

“A couple times a week. The fights move around.”

You wrapped a bandage around his arm and began tending to his hands. His knuckles were red and cracked. Bare knuckle boxing, he’d said. “So, tough guy, if I disinfect your knuckles are you gonna be a man about it?” you teased.

“You come into my house,” he grumbled jokingly, and you grinned back before swabbing his knuckles. This time, he didn’t flinch. “You really didn’t need to go get all this stuff for me, you know,” he said, watching as you wrapped up his hands.

“I know.”

“So what the hell did you waste your money on this for? Your ass is as broke as mine,” Stan pointed out, flexing his fingers as you released his hands.

“I don’t know. I need a reason for doing something nice?” you said, brushing off his question. It was a lie. You knew why – you didn’t like seeing him broken. And there was a great amount of satisfaction in being the one who fixed him. “Now turn around. I need to get to your back.”

He did as he was told, and as you cleaned and dressed his wounds you wondered out loud, “I don’t suppose you were thinking of calling to tell me you were okay?”

“I didn’t want to do much of anything. That last fight took a lot out of me. I’ve been doing nothing but sleeping for two days.”

“You haven’t even eaten anything?”

“Nope.”

You sat back. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to leave knowing you’ve been starving yourself for two days! I mean… Jesus, Stan, you’ve got to start taking better care of yourself,” you lectured him, putting things away in the first aid kit and standing. “I’m getting you dinner. What do you want? Pizza, Chinese, burgers?”

“Hold on a minute,” Stan protested, standing up and following you into his living room. “You just bought a whole damn first aid kit; I’m not letting you waste any more of your money on me.”

You were already rooting through your bag for your wallet. “Shit,” you muttered. All you had was three dollars. “I don’t have enough for anything.”

“For Christ’s sake, would you listen to me?!” Stan barked, catching your attention. You turned around.

“What?”

“You’re not buying any dinner for me, okay? Jesus. Save your money. I know you’ve got rent due next week.”

“What am I supposed to do, let you starve?” you demanded, getting frustrated. “I don’t like knowing you’re taking such shit care of yourself!”

Stan groaned and went to his tiny kitchen counter, picking his wallet up. He pulled out a ten and handed it to you. “There. Go get food or whatever. Bring back what you want.”

You took the money, staring at him. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him willingly part with cash like that in the whole time you’d known him. “Um… okay.” You picked up your bag and slung it over your shoulders. “Answer the bell this time and let me in, okay?”

“Fine,” he grunted, and you shrugged and left.

Twenty minutes later you were heading back through the door, a bag of Chinese takeout in hand. Stan greeted you at the door, and you tried not to think too much about the fact that he still hadn’t put his shirt back on as you stuffed two dollar bills in his hands. “There’s your change.”

He rolled his eyes and shoved the bills into your bag. “You bought me the first aid kit, remember? This one’s on me.”

“You’re being strangely… laid-back tonight,” you observed, dropping the bag of food on the floor and sitting down. It was weird. Stan was always freaking out about money; to see him so relaxed about it was a bit off-putting.

“Don’t get used to it. I just don’t like to owe people,” Stan mumbled, joining you on the floor. “I hope you got Mongolian beef.”

You found the right container and passed it to him. “Like I’d forget.”

It was sort of nice, lounging on his floor, fumbling with chopsticks and stealing bits of each other’s food, laughing and talking like nothing was wrong, like you hadn’t come in unannounced two hours earlier and taken the liberty of fixing him up. You told him what he was missing out on at the diner, including the jerk who’d tried to trip you so you’d deliberately spill food on him. Stan grinned, noting that if he’d been there he’d have given the guy a black eye.

“Maybe it’s better you weren’t there,” you said, rolling over onto your back and stretching, letting out a long sigh. It was the first time in a long time you felt content. “I like having you around, even as infrequently as you are. Punching customers would probably get you fired, and then what excuse would I have for hanging out with you?”

Stan’s face appeared above you, that stupid grin you loved so much still on his lips. “We’d still hang out.”

“Yeah, right. I only ever see you at work and after when we don’t want to go home,” you pointed out, sulking a little. You were bitter about it. You liked him so much, but it seemed like he was only using your company as an easy way to pass the time.

Stan shrugged and sat back. “I don’t see why you even want to hang out with a deadbeat like me, to be honest. It’s… weird.”

You hated it when he said crap like that. “So what if you’re a deadbeat?” you asked, sitting up and giving him a hard stare. “I’m not exactly much better. Sure, I may have finished high school, but what else have I really got going for me? This is the best my life is ever gonna be. I may as well hang out with people I like before everything goes to hell.”

Stan let out a scathing laugh. “Yeah, right. You’re pretty. You could find some rich guy to shack up with in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to shack up with some rich guy – wait. Did you just say you think I’m pretty?” you asked, the full weight of what he’d just told you clunking into place.

“What? No.” He was turning red. Was that a good sign?

“You did!” you shouted triumphantly. “Ha! Stan Pines thinks I’m pretty! Oh, my god, someone call the papers! Let me go shout it from the rooftop!”

“Hey!” he barked, and suddenly he was on top of you, having shoved you back to the floor, his hands pinning your wrists level with your head as he hovered over you, looking about as appalled by his motions as you were. “Shut up,” he muttered. You couldn’t believe it. He was actually blushing.

You knew exactly what to say to elicit the response you wanted. “Make me.”

And then his lips were on yours, his chest against yours, his tongue in your mouth, exploring every facet, and you let yourself just be in the moment. Stan Pines, kissing you. Stan Pines, the guy you’d had a crush on for upwards of a few months now. Maybe it was all a dream and you would wake up any second, but for now it was enough to just be there.

Stan pulled away, looking into your eyes with a hungry glimmer. Fuck, that was a turn on. “You were asking for it,” he growled lowly.

“Gee, what was your first clue?” You extended your neck to kiss him again, sitting up without your lips leaving his as you pressed his back to the floor and straddled him, running your fingers along his shoulders, his chest. God, he had a lot of chest hair. Why did you find that so sexy? You pulled back and kissed his neck, loving the sounds of his groans as you licked the sensitive flesh above his Adams apple and nuzzled against his jaw. You’d always wondered what it would feel like to have that stubble brushing against your skin.

And it was far more glorious than you could have hoped for.

“Didn’t realize you were so interested in riding the Stan o’ War,” Stan breathed out huskily, abruptly grabbing your waist, which effectively made you stop kissing him as he sat up and started tugging your shirt off over your head. He smirked when it came off. “I didn’t think you were wearing a bra, but now I know for sure you weren’t.”

“Fuck you,” you blushed, resisting the urge to cover your chest with your arms.

“Isn’t that the plan?” He asked, his grin unbearably hot. He didn’t let you answer before he leaned in, taking one breast in his mouth. You whimpered and arched your back into it. He could _feel_ him smiling as he circled your nipple with his tongue. One of his hands went to your other breast, manipulating it expertly. He’d done this before, but you couldn’t be sure with who. He knew what he was doing, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

He pulled away with the sound of a wet _pop_ and suggested, “You know, the bed’s a lot more comfortable than the floor.”

You were still recovering a bit from the intense pleasure his ministrations had induced, but found yourself nodding. “Yeah… bedroom…”

He stood up and grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet. You were the first into his tiny bedroom, and he followed you inside, shutting the door behind him before he was on you again, his arms wrapped around your waist as he kissed your neck, occasionally nipping at the sensitive flesh. You couldn’t suppress a small groan.

He began working at the zipper on your jeans, and as he started yanking them off of you, you fell backwards onto his bed, letting him relieve you of them before he went to work on taking off his own pants. He made short work of it before he was crawling back on top of you. You had always assumed he’d be a top sort of guy, which was just fine by you. You had always liked the bottom better anyway.

He _really_ liked your breasts, you thought fleetingly as he continued kissing you, moving his attentions to your neck. His hands never left them, constantly teasing and manipulating them. Occasionally he’d stray, peppering kisses down to the dip between your breasts before taking one in his mouth again. Oh, god, his stubble was incredible.

He moved back up to your neck, frequently letting his tongue loose to explore. When he started nibbling at your earlobe you jolted as a spark of pleasure ran down your spine. You heard him chuckle.

“What?” you whispered.

“Just… you’re doing everything pretty how I imagined,” he informed you, kissing your neck again.

You were almost too distracted by the stubble scratching tantalizingly against your jaw to keep asking questions, but the curiosity was killing you. “What do you mean, how you imagined?”

He snorted. “Come on. If you think I haven’t fantasized about your body more than once you’re kidding yourself.”

“Good to know,” you grinned, more than a little flattered as his mouth pressed to yours again. God, he was rough and ravenous. This was already shaping up to be the best sex you’d ever had and you weren’t even completely naked with him yet.

Though that changed rapidly. Stan began tugging at your panties and you lifted your hips to help him along before he slid them off you and down your legs, tossing them aside. He sat back and began rubbing your thighs, spreading your legs so he could have complete access. Running a hand up your stomach to one breast, manipulating the nipple, he slid a finger from his free hand inside you. You bucked your hips, arching into his touch. “Fuck, that’s good,” you hissed, and were rewarded with a vigorous squeeze of your breast as he buried his finger in you to the knuckle.

You could feel his eyes watching you as the tension and heat built up inside, pushing you close to your edge. Your thighs were trembling and your knees were sweating and you didn’t care; you just wanted release. “Stan,” you gasped out, your fingers clutching for his shoulders, desperate for an anchor. You were so close to coming…

He added a second finger and you whimpered and jolted. Your back was arched so far off the bed your hips weren’t even on the mattress anymore. “Stan,” you moaned, begging him to bring you to your climax.

You felt his finger curl, ever so slightly, to prod your G-spot, and there it was; you let out a shrill noise of pleasure and then you were falling, plummeting off of passion’s peak into a sea of fantastic spasms and overwhelming trembles. Fuck, it was good. You were even seeing stars behind your closed lids.

“Christ,” Stan breathed, pressing back into you. His chest hairs tickled. “You are so goddamn sexy when you come.”

You could feel his hard-on pressing into your hip and grinned back. “Yeah, I can feel the effect I have on you.”

He gave you an aggressive kiss to the neck, biting and sucking until the flesh was sore. That was a hickey if you’d ever felt it, but you didn’t care. This felt too damn good. When he moved his attentions to your earlobe you groaned. You were already turned on again, so much that every nerve felt alive.

Your hands traced a path down his chest to his stomach to finger the waistband on his boxers before slipping your fingers beneath the fabric and taking ahold of his hardness. He let out a hiss through clenched teeth. “Like that?” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and you grinned, releasing him and tugging at his boxers. He raised his hips enough for you to slide them off, throwing them in the same general direction as your own underwear had gone. “Where’s your lube?” you asked, sitting up.

Stan rolled over and he groped at the floor behind him and thrust a small plastic bottle into your hands wordlessly. You appreciated that there wasn’t any bullshit about it. Some guys were reluctant to admit they always kept lube close by. Like you were under some illusion they didn’t masturbate.

You uncapped the bottle and gathered some of the gel on your fingers, rubbing it over your palms before gripping his erection at the base with one hand and giving it a gentle squeeze before stroking the length of him with your other hand. His reaction was immediate, the guttural moan a ridiculous turn on. His eyes were half-closed and his breaths were coming in short gasps, indicating you were doing one hell of a number on him. And Jesus, you were impressed with how long he could last. You’d been with guys who came as soon as you payed any attention to their hard-ons.

After a couple minutes enduring your blissful torture he abruptly grasped your wrists, “Stop,” he gasped. His cheeks were flushed and you could see the beads of sweat dotting his skin. “I’m gonna come.”

“Condoms,” you demanded, looking around as though you’d see a box lying around somewhere. Stan reached beneath his mattress and pulled out a box, and made quick work of ripping the packaging off of one and rolling it over his erection. As soon as it was on he pounced, shoving you back into the mattress and engulfing your mouth in his, thrusting in with little warning. You gasped as he filled and stretched you. He was big. Bigger than any of your previous hookups. It was almost uncomfortable at first.

He waited just long enough to be sure you weren’t actually in pain but your gasp was one of pleasure before he began to move, at first languidly thrusting in and out but rapidly picking up speed. You gripped at his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin to keep a hold on him. His mouth was on your mouth, his hands were on your hips. You couldn’t really tell whose tongue was whose anymore. The sensation of him moving, rubbing against your sweet spot but without enough pressure to really put you back over the edge, was overwhelming. You arched your back into him, trying desperately to position yourself better so he would hit it. Your shoulders dug into the mattress.

You were extremely disappointed when Stan came, collapsing on top of you as though he’d just run a marathon. You were on the edge, so close to another orgasm, and he was done. “Shit,” he breathed, pulling out and sitting up. “You are something else.”

You groaned, remaining still where you lay on the bed. “Fuck,” you muttered. You needed release. It wasn’t fucking fair.

“You okay?” Stan asked, a hand resting on your stomach.

You gave him a pleading look. You didn’t care that your mouth was slack or your lids heavy. You didn’t care that you probably looked pathetic. “Need to come,” you begged in a breathy exhale, hoping he would take a hint.

You squealed your pleasure when that hand on your stomach returned to your wetness, leisurely thrusting in and out. You knew he was watching you, probably immensely enjoying himself. He probably had that idiotic grin on his face. But _fuck_ if this didn’t feel so good. “Yes,” you moaned, feeling yourself approach that peak again. “God! Stan! Jesus _Christ—!”_

There it was. Starbursts of all sorts of colors overtaking you, every muscle tensing in such intense pleasure it almost hurt. Stan sure as hell knew how to finger a girl. You wondered if you could get any more sex out of him before he moved on. The guys you slept with always did. Because god, you needed more of this.

The tension went from your muscles nearly all at once as you returned to the physical plane. Stan was peeling off the condom and tying it off, tossing it into the small trash can near the door, and you took several deep breaths, recovering. “You are fucking fantastic,” you breathed, wiping sweat off your brow.

Stan laid back down next to you, giving you a long, deep kiss. “You’re not so bad yourself. The way you screamed my name – Jesus, what a turn on.”

“I aim to please,” you mumbled, a little lost in the kiss.

Stan wrapped his arms around you and you felt him wince. And that’s when you remembered. “Oh, god. Your injuries! Christ, I totally forgot—”

“Calm down.”

“Are you okay?! I mean, you didn’t hurt yourself more, did you?! Fuck, I’m such an idiot—!”

“Shit, would you calm down?!” Stan demanded, squeezing you tighter against him. You shut up at once, instead listening to the sound of his heart beating in his chest. “It kind of hurt,” Stan admitted, and you wanted to start saying something before he shushed you. “But every damn minute of that was worth it. Besides—” you could _hear_ the grin, you didn’t even need to see it. “I’ve got a high pain tolerance. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

You sighed and nuzzled closer next to him. “Okay.”

You were silent for a few minutes, listening to one another’s breaths slow as you recovered. Finally, you moved to sit up. “I should probably go.”

He refused to release you. “You’re not going anywhere,” he breathed. He sounded half-asleep.

“You want me to stay?” you asked, a little surprised. A part of you had thought this was just a quick hookup.

You felt his fingers curl in your hair. “Yeah. Stay,” he whispered.

You smiled and relaxed into him, shutting your eyes. This was new. Usually guys were more than eager to throw you out the door once they’d gotten what they wanted from you. “That I can do,” you mumbled contentedly.

Tomorrow morning you could have the awkward “What did this mean, what are we?” talk. For now, this was more than enough.


End file.
